“Poets speak of hope in ladies smiles, but give me a smirk any day, I say.”

“I would say poetry is language charged with emotion. It's words, rhythmically organized . . . A poem is a complete little universe. It exists separately. Any poem that has any worth expresses the whole life of the poet. It gives a view of what the poet is.”

“You will surely smile with me when I say, 'Thank God one can still recognise self-pity as such and not give it any greater dignity than just that.”

“Hey,” I say, taking a seat on an island stool. “Did anyone call for me?”“Your dad and I had a great day; thanks for asking.” Mom smirks.“How was your day? Did anyone call for me?” I smile.She dumps a gob of coconut oil into her raw-ful mixture. “Anyone meaning Ben?”“Am I that transparent?”“It’s just that I was sixteen once, too.”“Right,” I say, shuddering even to think of her pre-forty, pre-me, pre-Dad, when it was just her hippie self, burning incense, going braless, and dating poets.”

“Phooey, I say, on all white-shoe college boys who edit their campus literary magazines. Give me an honest con man any day.”

“I have never heard a lady say 'arse,'" the emperor said mildly."I haven't been a lady for long," I reminded him. A little demon–made of exhaustion and the emperors smile– pushed me into adding,"For five years I've been saying 'arse.' It's hard to stop saying 'arse' after that many years. I suppose I should stop saying 'arse,' since ladies don't say-""'Arse'," he finished for me. I met his grin.”